Duck Hunt
by DieEnte
Summary: So, Duck was, well, a duck, and Princess Tutu was a character from a story; what about Duck the girl? Where does she fit into the tale? Fakir is going to find out...
1. Chapter 1

The endless sea of cogs churned in the darkness. The din of their ticking was maddening, but, for one who was already mad, Herr Drosselmeier had nothing to fear. He stood upon an immense, floating cog, surfing through the darkness, hunting for the irregularity… With ears as attuned to the cacophony of clockwork as his, the task was easy. Some of the gears were seizing up, a story was dying. _The Prince and the Raven…_ The story had come to an end; the main characters' destinies had been fulfilled…

Up ahead he spotted it. As he approached, a constellation of cogs froze and plummeted down into the darkness. From the cluster, one remained afloat.

"Come with me, little one," Herr Drosselmeier bade the cog. "Let's find another place for you. A single cog can't possibly do any good on its own. No, no."

Drosselmeier sailed off on his disc, the lone gear following close behind…

* * *

Fakir watched the new girl practice, rapt by her graceful, statuesque poses, and stunningly elegant, seamless transitions. Sable strands of hair streaked his vision, he brushed them aside. His hair was pulled back in a short ponytail, leaving a few tendrils to frame his angular, virile face. His hair had lost the wiry buoyancy of his youth and hung limply, tousled. Dark, fervent eyes were narrowed in concentration, probing the girl's long, lean limbs, gauging her technique. Flawless. His focus swayed from mere technical evaluation to an appraisal of a more recreational sort. The girl's body, though toned, lacked a certain maturity, a certain feminine quality. She must have been about 18, his age, but her body almost seemed too slight, too delicate. Her face so ingénue, so soft. Her sultry lips, though, were a dead giveaway. A telltale sign of her age. Though Fakir could not help but think of her as a girl, he knew she was a young woman.

Her strawberry blonde hair was bundled upon her head in an intricate bun, pulled back precisely, so as to effectively display her entire face. Her brow was placid, belying the intense concentration Fakir knew occupied her entire being. Or almost her entire being. Her eyes; they glinted with undisguised ardor. Their warmth kindled Fakir's spirits, and in spite of himself, he smiled at the woman's passionate performance as she undulated daintily en Pointe.

Her enthusiasm, however, proved too intense. The passion in her eyes crept into her delicate features, hardening her countenance, contorting her limbs. Her dance became more frantic and discordant, somehow wildly beautiful in its urgency. She spun feverishly, propelling herself at the end of each turn with a flash of leg. Her path was aimed directly at Fakir, to whom, as far as he could tell, she remained oblivious. Fakir's smile sagged, eyes widened in dismay. It was like being approached by a petite, ridiculously slow tornado. He was too taken aback to warn her of the impending collision and too dumbfounded to evade it. Before he knew it, she was upon him.

Clara gasped as she found herself unceremoniously entangled in an unexpected, sloppy embrace. Her arms had struck what she believed to be a face; her own face had burrowed within what she took to be someone's chest, if the heartbeat that thundered in her ears was any indication. Disenthralling her splayed limbs, she 

thrust her face upward to uncover who it was she had managed so spectacularly to introduce herself to. Her sapphire eyes were met with a pair of dark, bewildered orbs. Clara almost swooned with embarrassment.

"I'm so sorry about that!" she apologized forcefully, nervous laughter punctuating her words. Her tactlessness was at such odds with the refined performance Fakir had just seen—well, up until the last part of it anyways—that he at first couldn't summon the presence of mind to respond. His silence made Clara start to sweat.

"You know, I didn't even see you there! Sometimes I get so wrapped up that I just don't notice what's going on around me. I should really set up some hazard signs when I'm practicing. They could say 'enter at your own risk!' Hahahahaha…" The young man did not appear to be amused. Clara suspected that he hadn't listened to her at all.

She cleared her throat and looked stupidly at the floor. There were the young man's bare feet. Until that moment, Clara didn't know feet could look toned—muscular. His did. Graceful, too. She wondered if the rest of him followed suit. Her gaze climbed upward. Black leotard contained fine, sinewy legs. A loose, azure top did its best to conceal his buff upper body, but Clara could tell it was there. His neck, though not thick, was well muscled, a fine pedestal for this face. Which, to Clara's shy satisfaction, was breathtaking. Dark hair hung haphazardly about his face, giving it a wildness. It was tied in the back and the attempt at civility made it look all the more feral. His tawny skin looked smooth and rich. The eyes. The eyes were the kicker. Sharp and dark like burnished bronze. She'd only got a quick peek at them before, now that she'd had a longer look…

"Fakir…" she muttered, almost dreamily. Fakir flinched, his puzzlement deepening, not to mention it completely unnerved him to hear his name pronounced in such dulcet, creamy tones. He wondered how she knew it.

"How did you know my name?" he asked.

She blushed. "Everybody knows," she said with a shrug, her eyes now firmly fixed on the ground.

Fakir sensed there was more to it than that. There was something about this girl, something familiar.

"What's yours?" he asked, almost demanded.

"Uh...Clara," she stammered, taken aback by his firmness. Her gaze was still grounded. She heard Fakir sigh, as though disappointed.

"Um, is something wrong?" she murmured, wondering how _she _could have the audacity to ask _him_ if there were anything wrong. Fakir's breath faltered.

"No, I just thought I might have known you from somewhere," he said it gently, sensing that his apparent disappointment had upset her.

"Oh…"

They stood silently for a few moments, listening as Odette's solo from Swan Lake, the music Clara had been dancing to previously, concluded.

Clara could feel Fakir's gaze upon her, just as surely as hers was on the floor. She felt obligated to say something. Anything.

"So are you going to try out for the school's production of Swan Lake?" she asked, lifting her gaze to his right shoulder, she couldn't manage his face.

"I already have," he said quietly.

"Did you get the part of Prince Siegfried!?" Clara asked, unable to corral her eagerness, her eyes burned into his.

"No," he said simply, deciding not to let her inexplicable enthusiasm jar him. "I tried for it, but I was cast as Rothbart." He smiled faintly. "I always seem to get the villain. It's starting to hurt my feelings," he joked.

"Well, still, that's no bit part! You have to have a strong presence to play him," Clara prattled, hoping she wasn't coming across as patronizing.

"I suppose," Fakir said blankly. "How about you, you trying out?" He wasn't sure that he cared, but he didn't want to appear rude. Clara mantled.

"Mm, yes," she said sheepishly. "I'm going for Odette."

"The lead role," Fakir's eyebrows reared, "that's quite ambitious."

"Yeah, I hope I've got what it takes."

"What I saw earlier seemed promising, as long as you don't lose control at the end there."

"Mm." The mention of her faux pas sent fresh waves of crimson down her cheeks.

"Um, but that intensity will come in handy for Odile's parts. Whoever gets the part of Odette will have to dance Odile's as well, as I'm sure you know," Fakir offered helpfully. His words seemed to encourage her. "Just make sure you rein it in."

Clara brightened. "I will thanks." She paused. "Well I suppose I should be off, I'm sure you're waiting for me to get my buns outta here so you can use the studio."

"It's alright, no rush," Fakir said. "When is your audition?"

"Tomorrow."

"Well by all means…" Fakir smiled, and turned to exit the studio. Clara gasped.

"Oh! Don't worry about me, what's a few more hours of practice going to buy me anyways!" she cried, rushing towards him, putting herself between him and the door. He placed a hand on her shoulder and smiled slyly.

"Good luck," he said, and gently pushed her aside, slipping through the doors silently. They closed with a hollow sound.

Clara sagged against the door, heaving a moony sigh. For the rest of the night, she danced on air.


	2. Chapter 2

May those who accept their fate be granted happiness; those who defy it, glory…

_The disembodied voice of Eydel rang in the night air and Fakir was running—running madly through the town, his thin, wiry legs carrying him as fast as they could. He didn't stop until he reached the tombstone with the stylized "D" upon it. He struck the lifeless stone with a blunt fist, not feeling his knuckles crack, the delicate skin bleed._

"_You took her from me!" he shouted at it, striking it again, with his other fist. Bone split, skin tore. "I want her back! I'm sure you've got plenty of other toys to play with; spare her!" He barraged the stone slab with blows, shredding his flesh to pieces, pulverizing his knuckles. He struck the headstone until blood blotted out the man's loathsome name. Struck until his strength gave out. Fakir sank to his knees, beginning to feel the sting from his self inflicted injuries. His bloody fists throbbed vengefully and Fakir fought back tears. It was no use…_

Fakir awoke with a start, sweat gleaming on his forehead, hair plastered to his face with it. _Only a dream…_ he thought.

But it wasn't only a dream. It was a memory, a memory that had haunted him all of these years.

After he and Duck had defeated Drosselmeier, Fakir had kept his word about never leaving her side. For months every night, after his studies and other duties were performed, he'd gone down to Duck's pond, bringing bread for her to eat and a sheaf of paper for himself. He would spend hours writing, willing Duck to become the girl she had been. Fakir had tried various methods—different plots, different writing techniques—all to no avail. Duck stubbornly remained a duck.

Though Fakir could no longer speak with Duck, he understood her wordlessly. The hopeful look in her large blue eyes—comforting, encouraging. Urging him not to lose hope.

Until one day when Fakir had been particularly impassioned and rapt in his writing. He penned a story he was sure would set her free. When it didn't, Fakir flew into a rage. He tore the pages to bits, scattering them into the pond. He watched as the ink blurred and became indecipherable; watched as the story bled and died. He laughed with satisfaction. Duck looked on somberly, her gaze beseeching. _Why?_

The satisfaction drained from his face, shame took its place. Fakir looked away from her, unable to maintain eye contact. He fled; ran home without looking back.

The next day, he returned, but Duck was nowhere to be found. In desperation, he had assailed Drosselmeier's grave marker, blaming her disappearance on the deranged phantom. Though in his heart, he knew he probably had himself to blame…

And now Fakir dreamed of that day, remembered days spent writing feverishly, beckoning Duck to return to him. His efforts had all proved futile.

To this day he wondered what had become of his little duck…

* * *

Last night's practice had been exquisite. With Fakir's endorsement, as meager as it had been—_what I saw earlier looked promising…as long as you rein it in—_was enough to send Clara to cloud nine. Each movement, 

each pose felt effortless. The physical demands on her body seemed slight. She was invincible, untouchable. It was as though the spirit of ballet had possessed her body; she was a marionette, a medium. It felt wonderful. Adrenaline surged through her limbs, achingly pleasant.

But perhaps she had been deluding herself. It hadn't been the first time, feeling like she had been on top of the world only to discover she hadn't performed as well as she'd thought—no, _known. _The idea was disconcerting. Maybe Fakir was just trying to be nice, to encourage a hopeless fool. Maybe he offered her use of the studio because he thought she'd needed all the practice she could get. A gesture of derision rather than good will.

_He pities me…_ she thought, spirits plunging. _That would make more sense. _

Clara stood against the wall of the studio amongst a throng of other hopefuls, watching a lithe blonde girl dance Odette's part. The girl was good, but a touch sloppy. Clara could see her body quake as she attempted each pose. Too bad. The judges looked on stoically, their expressions unreadable. Against the opposite wall, spectators had gathered. Clara's breath caught as she realized Fakir was among them. He did not seem to notice her.

The blonde girl was dismissed, and the frizzy haired red head in front of Clara strode out to engage the judges, en pointe. The music started. The girl performed a feverish though controlled dance. Odile's part. Clara watched in awe. Her lines, her technique; infallible. She was perfection itself. Clara's already low spirits took a nosedive. _The control…_

Clara peered up at the judges, but their faces revealed nothing. No matter, she knew they must have been engrossed in the performance. How could they not?

Abandoning all hope, Clara again turned her attention on the fiery headed stealer of dreams, preparing herself to be dismissed along with the other contenders. She was still doing impeccably. However…Clara thought she noticed something, something off. She concentrated, scrutinizing every move, every limb. Nothing faltered. But her face. Her face was so cold, so lifeless. Her dance was fluid, graceful. But with that expression—or lack thereof—she may as well have been dancing the robot, stiffly swinging her arms and legs. Clara swallowed a laugh at the resulting visual, and tried to keep a straight face. There was some hope left for her.

The girl concluded; the judges spoke terse words of praise, telling her she was in the running. _That's good, _Clara thought, _if they were completely satisfied they would have given her the role right then and there and sent the rest of us packing._

The judges prompted the next girl to come forward. That would be Clara. Thinking of how cold Fakir looked among the lookers-on and of the tough act she had to follow, she felt faint with nervousness. Adrenaline coursed through her, agonizingly—mordantly, dissolving her limbs to useless noodles. She approached the floor waveringly, red blossoms of anxiety bloomed on her cheeks. She stole a peak at Fakir, desperately seeking some support.

Her eyes met his. Instead of flashing with cold bronze like she expected, they sparkled and churned warmly, like syrup.

_Syrupy eyes? _Clara thought to herself, amused. _How hot is that, seriously, where do I come up with this stuff? _

But that look had soothed her nerves. A ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. _You'll do fine, _he said to her, mutely. She knew he wanted her to succeed. Not just felt or hoped; _knew. _She smiled with her eyes back at him, commanding the rest of her body to assume the position. The music started. She danced.

Clara didn't know how her audition was going. The entire thing was a blur. She was only vaguely aware of her body; swaying, bounding, prancing. Her world became a farrago of movement, obscure faces and music. She danced for what seemed like forever. She danced until she came to the startling realization that…

_Oh my God, the music's stopped…_

Clara froze, her body precariously balanced on one toe. The music had stopped, who knows how long ago. A gruff man, the lead judge, was quietly, but firmly, urging her to desist. Clara didn't know how long that had been going on either.

"…really, now, you may be trying to show off, but you're only making yourself look foolish..." was the first thing Clara deciphered of the man's appeals. She promptly drowned out the rest of his speech, her embarrassment couldn't take anymore.

Clara collapsed to both feet. "Sorry!" she shouted, most ungraciously. "I'll just be going now!" _To crawl in a hole and die_, she finished the thought in her head. Clara made an unceremonious bee line for the exit, barreling through the doors at warp speed. Running and running until she found herself in the courtyard. The sun hung low in the sky, grazing the horizon, coating everything in a golden mantle. She would have to return home soon.

Her eyes welled with tears, the tiny drops dangling from her lashes briefly before they fell. She hastily wiped them away and refused to let anymore fall. Clara stiffened at the sound of approaching footfalls, swift and graceful. A warm hand brushed against her shoulder. She turned to face Fakir, whose tranquil, expressionless face made it seem as though he had casually strolled after her, though Clara knew he must have made haste in order to have reached her so quickly.

"What do you want?" she asked softly, her voice swollen with self pity. Her wretchedness made him smile sympathetically.

"You fool, why did you run off like that?" he asked lightheartedly.

Clara's eyes narrowed, misery sparked to anger. "Humiliation has that effect on me."

Fakir chuckled. Clara was piqued.

"Stop laughing! It isn't funny! How could you laugh at somebody else's complete and utter embarrassment?!"

Fakir sobered. "I'm sorry, it isn't that. You left before you heard from the judges. You got the part."

Clara was stunned. "I did?"

Fakir nodded. "Your passion persuaded them, I suppose."

Clara blanched a little with the realization. "I got the part…" she muttered, almost as a question. Then, louder; a shout, a declaration: "I got the part!" A smile erupted on her face and she absentmindedly flung her arms around Fakir's neck. He swayed uncomfortably as she bounced up and down against him, repeating over and over again how she had indeed gotten the part.

He patted her back awkwardly. "Yes, yes, congratulations…" he said, and gently made an attempt to peel her off of him.

Clara's grasp held firm, and she continued to jump up and down, giddily oblivious.

Suddenly she froze, her gaze fastened on the sinking sun.

"Oh no! I've got to get home!" she shouted. Releasing a bewildered Fakir, she dashed off, yelling behind her, "I guess I'll see you at tomorrow's practice, good night!"


End file.
